


For of Sugar and Ice

by prozacplease



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Injury, M/M, Naked Cuddling, One-Sided Attraction, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rumlow is not 100 percent a dick, Sharing Body Heat, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prozacplease/pseuds/prozacplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky injures himself on a solo mission and Rumlow is sent to retrieve him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For of Sugar and Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Изо льда и сахара](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13381746) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> Just some stupid shit I wrote. Title taken from the song "Love Like Winter" by AFI.

The snow is soft and powdery underneath the asset’s heavy combat boots. He makes no sound as he navigates down the mountainside. The frigid air is sparkling with snowflakes being blown around by the wind, but the asset is oblivious to the beauty. He’s completely focused on the blood melted into the snow before him. It’s a trail leading him to his prey.

His name is Bucky, but he doesn’t know it. Weapons don’t have names, aside from the affectionate ones given by their operators.

He’s killed five of them so far today—terrified and exhausted men scattered throughout the snowy forest by panic when they realized they were being hunted by the Winter Soldier. Bucky doesn’t know why he’s killing and it doesn’t matter. His only goal is to complete the mission. He watches people die like a person would observe amoeba through a microscope.

The snow hides the uneven terrain and Bucky can’t catch himself when he slips on a rock. His back makes contact with the ground and the impact knocks the wind out of him. However, he’s more concerned with the sharp pain in his right knee and hip as he falls down the steep hillside.

Bucky finally comes to a stop nearly one hundred feet from where he fell. He’s in pain and unable to move for a few moments. There’s something sickeningly familiar about lying broken in the snow like this. Slowly, Bucky takes inventory of his injuries. Nothing fatal, but he’s in quite a bit of pain. His sniper rifle is underneath his body, scope shattered.

Bucky is able to sit up, right leg stretched out awkwardly in front of him. He feels for broken bones or a dislocated kneecap. Nothing. But his knee is hurting badly enough that he doesn’t know if he can walk, much less complete the mission. Bucky's heart sinks at the thought. He has to report this incident to his superiors.

The satellite phone on Bucky’s tactical belt is intact and functional, although there is a considerable delay between the two people communicating. Whoever he ends up speaking to isn’t very concerned, but they say they will send someone to assist him to the extraction point. He is told to find shelter and wait for help. Bucky acknowledges the instructions, but following through is an ordeal. The mission is scrapped and he hates himself for it.

Bucky struggles to get to his feet, crying out in pain when he puts weight on his right leg. His knee is weak and it buckles beneath him. He limps into the treeline, deciding that the tall stands of pines will shield him from the wind and hide him from any enemies. Every step is laborious and painful; he has to use the trees to stay upright. Bucky feels sick when he finds the blood trail again, the accompanying footprints staggered awkwardly in the snow. He should be tracking more targets, but finding shelter is his new objective.

Bucky isn’t quite sure what sort of shelter he’s supposed to find. The area is very remote, the terrain rugged and difficult to navigate. It’s not long before Bucky is sweating and shivering at the same time. 

 

* * *

 

The cold wind disturbs the fur that trims the hood of Rumlow’s parka. He is dressed in his winter tactical gear—a white coat, fatigues, and boots. He placed white shielding on his rifle as an afterthought, but he is more concerned with the fact that his boots are brand new and not broken in. In fact, his heels are feeling raw after only an hour of walking.

Rumlow is definitely not thrilled, but it’s not every day that he gets sent on a solo rescue mission. The asset is hurt and needs help. Should be straightforward enough.

There is a tracker embedded in Bucky’s shoulder and Rumlow uses its signal as a guide. It’s mid-afternoon, but the sun is already getting low and wind is picking up. Thankfully, they’re not far apart now. Just one more big slope.

The hillside is steep and Rumlow’s calves are burning when he crests it. He’s mildly surprised to see a dilapidated hunting cabin tucked into a grove of fir trees. The roof is sagging a bit from the weight of the snow blanketing it, and the chimney looks like it’s one crumbled rock away from collapsing. Rumlow notices that the snow surrounding the cabin is disturbed, like someone walked through it. When he approaches, he sees that the doorframe of the cabin is broken, probably from having a metal shoulder thrown against it.

“Asset,” he says, pushing the door open with the muzzle of his rifle.

Bucky is sitting on the edge of a bed, shivering. His eyes go wide when he sees that it’s Agent Rumlow. He must be in major trouble if they sent his commanding officer to retrieve him.

Rumlow pulls back his hood and takes off the balaclava protecting his mouth and nose from the elements. His hair is matted down and running a hand through it doesn’t do much to rectify it.

“Hey, kid,” he says, sniffing. His nose is runny from the cold. “You fell?”

“Yes, sir,” is all Bucky says.

“Anything broken?” Rumlow asks. He takes off his backpack and tosses it on the floor.

Bucky shakes his head and Rumlow frowns briefly in frustration. Talking to Bucky through command prompts is not only creepy, but annoying.

“Status report, soldier,” Rumlow says. It’s the only way he will get any solid answers about Bucky’s condition.

“Impaired functionality. Sustained injuries to right hip and knee joints. Unable to walk properly. Possibly experiencing hypothermia,” Bucky says. The words come out automatically.

Rumlow comes over to him and touches his long, messy hair. He gives an unhappy grunt when he feels that it’s damp. Bucky’s lips are tinged blue and he is shivering in short, violent bursts.

“All right, coat’s coming off,” Rumlow says, yanking down the zipper of Bucky’s parka.

Bucky flinches, but otherwise remains still. It seems that Rumlow is inspecting him, for whatever reason. Bucky is terrified that he’s made some sort of unknown error and that punishment is imminent.

Rumlow is angered to see that Bucky is wearing a singular layer beneath his parka—a skin tight thermal shirt. This clingy layer trapped in his body heat and made him sweat. Perspiring made him hypothermic.

“Are you fucking me?” Rumlow asks, guiding Bucky’s arms out of the sleeves of his coat.

Bucky shakes his head. His penis isn’t inside his commanding officer.

“I can’t believe this,” Rumlow says. “Lift your arms.”

Bucky obeys the command, but averts his eyes. He fucked up. He doesn’t know what he did, but he’s in trouble. And he knows how hard Rumlow can hit.

“This is what happens when you put other people in charge,” Rumlow says, pulling the thermal shirt over Bucky’s head. “Can’t follow simple fucking instructions.”

Bucky is confused. He’s never been in charge, so maybe Rumlow is talking about someone else. But why is he so angry? Rumlow tells him to lay back on the bed and Bucky obeys that command too. It’s hard with his one leg hurting so badly, but he manages.

“Pants are coming off too,” Rumlow says.

He wrenches Bucky’s left boot off, but makes a point to unlace the right one and take it off as carefully as possible. Bucky grimaces and tries to not cry out in pain. It hurts to have his leg pulled on like that.

“Sorry, chief,” Rumlow says, going for Bucky’s button-up fly next.

Bucky licks his lips nervously. He’s being stripped naked. People take his clothes off for many unpleasant reasons, but it’s still distressing. He doesn’t want to be punished like this. Anything but this.

“Please—” Bucky starts, the rest of his plea dying in his throat as Rumlow yanks his belt out of the loops in his fatigues.

The motion jars his hip and he growls at the discomfort. Rumlow tells him to relax, but it sounds more like an order than something soothing. Removing his pants is more painful than the belt. Bucky cries out in pain and Rumlow shushes him, with more tenderness this time.

“Nothin' dislocated. Maybe tore your ACL or somethin’,” Rumlow comments. “But ‘m not a doctor.”

Rumlow tosses the damp clothes aside, still angry that Bucky was dressed so inappropriately. He is unprepared to deal with hypothermia and his options are limited. He looks around for something to cover Bucky with. There is a small closet on the other side of the room and inside of it are—miraculously—three blankets. They are musty and falling apart but they will provide needed insulation.

Rumlow drapes them over Bucky’s shivering body and then starts to strip down himself. He's going to have to warm Bucky up the old fashioned way.

Bucky swallows thickly, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable. He doesn’t want this to happen, but it’s best to be compliant.

Rumlow pulls back the blankets and climbs on top of Bucky, careful to not hurt his leg. He’s disrupted by Bucky scooting back a bit and spreading his legs. Bucky tries to be alluring, but the pain of moving his leg makes that difficult. He winces and stifles a whimper.

Rumlow stops short. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He’s so confused. He watches as the realization changes Rumlow’s expression.

“No, put your legs down,” he says. “That’s not what we’re doing.”

He can't believe Bucky thinks he wants to have sex with him right now. But when he thinks about it, Bucky's reaction makes sense. He took his clothes off and is trying to lay down on top of him. It's no surprise that Bucky expects something sexual, seeing as though people are fucking him left and right. Private visits with Secretary Pierce, locker room gang bangs with the STRIKE team. Bucky's life is just a miserable string of corny porn scenarios and he's the semen-covered star.

Surprisingly, Rumlow isn't one of Bucky's regulars. He thinks Bucky is attractive, sure. And as a commanding officer, Rumlow has had him all to himself on many occasions. But there's something about the human weapon that he finds off-putting. Maybe it's the way his eyes go dead when the intimacy starts or the facade of willingness and consent.

Rumlow always finds himself trying to make the pleasure mutual rather than just using Bucky's body. The last time, Bucky actually got startled when something felt good. It was sad. And that's why Rumlow usually seeks the company of his second-in-command, Rollins, who is decidedly more human.

“You have hypothermia. I’m tryin’ to warm you up, not get in your pants,” Rumlow says.

He helps Bucky get situated again, then lays down on top of him. Bucky’s skin is cold and his heart is pumping hard. But Rumlow is solid and warm on top of him, and the contact of their nearly naked bodies is… nice? Rumlow smells good and Bucky finds his coarse New York accent to be strangely comforting. It makes him think of home, although he has no concept of the word.

Bucky looks at his past through a lens coated in petroleum jelly. The scruffy jaws and severe haircuts all look the same to him, but he remembers that it was Rumlow who was nice to him. Kissed him. Told him he was pretty. Tried hard to make him feel good even though Bucky was barely aroused. Never raised his voice when their clothes were off.

“Jesus, you’re cold,” Rumlow mutters, trying to get comfortable.

Bucky stays quiet and focuses on not shivering. He turns his head and puts his cold face in the crook of Rumlow’s neck, nuzzling him. They lay like this for over an hour. Bucky slowly stops shivering and becomes drowsy.

Rumlow is uncomfortable and can’t relax. His mind is racing with all he has to do now. Everything is fucked. He was planning on getting Bucky’s leg taped up and hauling his ass down the mountainside before dark. But the trek took longer than expected and he wasn’t bargaining on Bucky having hypothermia. They might have to spend the night here.

Rumlow waits until he feels Bucky stop shivering and then pushes himself up with a grunt. Bucky looks up at him, bewildered and silently mourning the loss of the other man’s body heat. He watches as Rumlow gets dressed, sleepily admiring the goosebumps on his shapely thighs.

Rumlow steps into his boots but does not lace them up. He brings his backpack over to the bed and unzips it. By some miracle, he thought to pack a change of clothes for Bucky, who is always ripping the ass out of his fatigues and ruining his gear.

“Let’s get these on you,” Rumlow says, tossing the clothes down one garment at a time.

Bucky is grateful for the new layer of warmth and cooperates as best he can. The long-sleeved shirt goes on easy but the pants and underwear are more of a challenge. Rumlow assists him with a calmness Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen in this man.

“You need sweatpants, not winter-knit fatigues,” Rumlow says, wincing when Bucky yelps in pain. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Bucky says.

“I want you to eat somethin’ while I try and make contact with command,” Rumlow says.

Bucky nods, although he doesn’t have much of an appetite. He never gets a choice about when he eats. Bucky pushes himself up into a sitting position and Rumlow hands him two protein bars. He pulls out a half-frozen water bottle and squeezes it to break up the ice forming inside of it.

Bucky gnaws on a rock hard protein bar while Rumlow uses the satellite phone. It’s not long before he’s agitated and pacing, laces of his untied boots dragging on the floor.

“Both the hip and knee of his one leg are fucked up. I’m not dragging his ass down in the dark,” Rumlow snaps. There’s a pause. “I wanna know who dressed him, too. He’s got hypothermia.”

This conversation goes on for several minutes and Bucky only half-listens. There are a lot of curse words. He’s only halfway through his second protein bar when Rumlow hangs up in frustration. He stalks across the floor, running a hand through his hair.

“We’re spending the night,” Rumlow says, tossing the phone onto the bed. “Asked for an airlift, but there’s an ice storm down south.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, unsure of how to respond.

Rumlow shakes his head. “Ice storm ain’t your fault. You feelin’ any better?”

Bucky is cold, but he’s not shaking uncontrollably anymore. He gives his commanding officer an affirmative answer and takes a sip of slushy water. Rumlow still seems restless and frustrated. Bucky watches as he gets out a big black Maglite and all but climbs up inside the crumbling chimney to see if a fire is a possibility. There’s a small stack of neatly cut logs by the fireplace and Rumlow wastes no time in setting some of them alight.

“Like a fuckin’ caveman,” Rumlow growls.

Bucky doesn’t get it, but he knows fire is a good thing. The light and warmth of it makes the wind howling around the eaves of the cabin not so ominous. It casts shadows that make Rumlow’s cheekbones all the more prominent.

It occurs to Bucky that he’s being treated pretty damn nicely, and maybe he should show his appreciation. Nevermind the earlier rejection. He’s going to do the work this time. When Rumlow is satisfied with the fire, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s hungry and a few protein bars isn’t going to cut it, but it will help.

“Think we should move the mattress onto the floor. Close to the fire,” Rumlow says.

He’s focused on trying to open the wrapper with his numb fingers and doesn’t notice Bucky slipping off the bed. Even with an injured leg, Bucky is able to move quicker and quieter than most men. He wants to plunk to his knees like he usually does in front of a guy, but his injured knee won’t allow it. Bucky still settles between Rumlow’s spread knees before the other man even realizes it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rumlow asks.

Bucky ignores Rumlow’s scowl and leans in, nuzzling his warm inner thigh.

“Trying to say thank you,” he says.

The normally beguiling words just seem pitiful coming from Bucky right now. Rumlow nudges him back, a denial that hurts more than Bucky thought it would. The action is firm, but there’s no anger behind it.

“Nuh-uh,” Rumlow says. “Not interested. Get up off the floor.”

Bucky sits back on his knees, but doesn’t obey the order. He doesn’t understand why Rumlow doesn’t want him. He needs to get up before he gets hit, but his leg hurts too much.

“I need help,” Bucky says timidly.

“For fuck’s sake, kid."

Bucky knows he's overstepped his bounds as Rumlow helps him up from the floor and directs him to sit down. But he also knows that nothing is for free and the only currency he has is his body.

"I don't know how to explain this so your weird little animal brain understands," Rumlow says. "I'm not doing you a favor by coming up here to get you. I'm doing my job. That means you don't owe me anything."

"But you're being nice," Bucky says.

"And you're making it difficult." Rumlow pulls off his boots and leaves them where he drops them. "What do you wanna hear? That I'll facefuck you later?"

Bucky shrugs. He doesn't have answers to those questions but he still has to give a verbal response.

"I don't know. I’m sorry."

They sit in silence while Rumlow works on a few protein bars. Once, he makes a comment about not wanting to lose a filling. Bucky knows what those are—he's got quite a few—but doesn't say anything.

He’s made to stand while Rumlow drags the ratty mattress off its rickety frame. Rumlow drops it down a few feet from the fire, then rearranges the blankets. Bucky needs help lying down and has to take Rumlow’s hands so he can be lowered without hurting his leg. He already requires assistance to complete the simplest of tasks, so needing help to move is a blow to Bucky’s practically nonexistent self-esteem.

“You haven’t been this messed up in a long time,” Rumlow says.

Bucky doesn’t remember and doesn’t try to. He’s more focused on the nagging pain in his upper thigh. The muscles are badly strained. His knee is swollen and he’s having trouble bending it after kneeling on the floor. Bucky is trying to settle onto his back when Rumlow makes a little twirling motion with his index finger.

“On your side,” he says. “The uninjured one.”

It takes some effort, but Bucky manages to roll onto his side without having to ask for help. While he’s focused on that task, Rumlow covers him with the blankets and then slips in behind him. Bucky is a little surprised by the press of Rumlow’s body against his, the way he wraps his arm around his side and pulls him in close.

He must be tense because Rumlow nuzzles the back of his neck and says, “Relax.”

His voice is low and comforting, but Bucky has to consciously let the tension out of his muscles. He’s hurting. The pain is distracting, although the fire is warm and he feels safe with Rumlow right next to him. Bucky has been conditioned to ignore pain signals, so he doesn’t ask for any medication. He can handle it.

“Just glad you’re not shiverin’ anymore,” Rumlow says, giving Bucky a little squeeze.

“Me too,” Bucky says. He settles back against Rumlow and closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Pain in my ass,” Rumlow mutters affectionately.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Come hang out with me on Tumblr!](http://www.prozacplease.tumblr.com)
> 
> ♥ Comments are always appreciated. ♥  
> 


End file.
